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  “We found something you really have to see,” she told him. “I couldn't explain it over the phone, you'd think I was insane. What we've found here...” She paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “You just have to see it for yourself.”

  “I know you claim to have found something,” he muttered, watching as several figures in the distance moved through the mud while stepping carefully around patches of dirt that had been roped off. “I read your initial report into the dig you've been carrying out here.”

  “And what did you think?” Mary asked.

  He glanced at her. “I thought it was baseless, meandering garbage,” he said calmly, “and I honestly began to wonder what kind of mind could possibly come up with such trash. You might have a future as an author of wild fantasies, Miss Baker, but your abilities as an archaeologist are very much in question! I can only imagine that you're trying to compensate for some deep-seated and extremely justified sense of inadequacy. I also took the time to look up your doctoral work. Jesus Christ, you're a hack!”

  Before Mary could answer that barrage of insults, Doctor Clarke stepped forward and opened his own, larger umbrella, and then he set out across the mud, squelching through thick, watery puddles that slowed his pace. He muttered a few obscenities under his breath as he felt cold water seeping into his shoes and through his socks. All around, rain was still crashing down, blown through the air by a high wind that continually changed its direction, whipping first this way and then that across the moor. Doctor Clarke let out a few more curse words under his breath, frustrated that the muddy ground kept him from going faster, while up ahead he saw dark figures still hurrying through the night, darting between high-standing arc lights that had been weighed down at their bases by piles of sandbags. Already, half the equipment looked to be sinking into the mud.

  “I think you're going to change your mind when you see what we've found!” Mary called out as she struggled to keep pace. “Doctor Clarke, I've always been a huge admirer of your work, ever since...” She hesitated for a moment. “Well, anyway, your reputation is immense. I've read all your books, I quoted your work extensively in my doctoral thesis, and that's why I knew we had to get you out to look at this. I mean, more than anyone else in the country, you're probably the leading expert when it comes to this period of history.”

  “Probably?” he asked.

  “Well, definitely, but -”

  “I'm going to want an apology,” he continued, still squelching through the mud. “When this is over and I've debunked your ridiculous claims, I'm going to want one hell of a groveling apology for dragging me out here to the arse-end of nowhere!”

  “But Doctor -”

  Above, a loud clap of thunder rumbled across the sky, causing Mary to look up in shock. The weather forecast had predicted rain, but not a full storm.

  “If word of this palaver gets out,” Doctor Clarke continued with a long-suffering sigh, “and I end the evening in a particularly bad mood, I might decide to destroy your career. Do you understand that?” Receiving no reply, he glanced back at her for a moment. “You could be laughed out of the profession for this. If I tell my colleagues about your mindless stupidity, word will quickly spread and you'll become unemployable. Seriously, Miss Baker, that's how much weight my opinion carries. You'll have to give up your dreams of a career in archeology and start flipping burgers with the rest of the lower middle-class graduates.”

  “Please, Doctor -”

  “This is what happens when any Tom, Dick or Sally is allowed to go to university,” he added, clearly warming to his theme. “We end up with idiots in the academic system, pumped up with a sense of their own importance and desperately trying to make names for themselves. Judging by your youth, Miss Baker, I assume you are a product of the Blair generation. I don't know who to dislike more. The Labour government for opening the floodgates, or the Tories for not shutting them again!”

  “I know my claims are pretty crazy,” she replied, forcing herself to ignore his rant, “but I promise you, I wouldn't have asked you to come here tonight if I wasn't sure of my findings. Really, really sure.”

  “Oh Christ,” he replied, “do you know what I hate the most?”

  “Rain?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Mud?”

  “Young people,” he groaned. “You lot never know your place, do you?”

  Again he muttered some curse words, but this time he turned and focused on getting to the dig site as quickly as possible. Cold and tired, he wanted merely to disprove her claims and then get back to his hotel room in town, and maybe sneak in a Guinness or two. As he got closer to the roped-off area, he saw several dark objects glistening in the mud, while a little further off there was a large white tent, its sides billowing in the relentless wind and rain. Nearby, one of the arc lights was swaying dangerously in the wind, as if it might get blown over at any moment.

  “So what do we have here?” he asked with a contemptuous sigh as he stopped and looked down at the objects on the ground. “Mud, mud and more mud?”

  ***

  “This is a Cavalier helmet from the English Civil War,” Mary said a few minutes later, as they stood in the tent. Holding up the battered, cracked helmet, she turned it around in the light for him to see properly, just as another rumble of thunder filled the night sky outside. “Typical lobster-tailed pot type, most likely from a Royalist harquebusier. Judging by the area around the rear, and this section of -”

  “Late 1644, possibly early 1645 construction,” he snapped, interrupting her.

  “I was thinking it might be from as early as 1642,” she replied, turning the helmet around to show him the front. “Based on this patterning here, and also -”

  “Completely impossible,” he continued, snatching the helmet from her hands and tilting it to examine the inside. “This detailing here was never used before the middle of 1644, and combined with the joins here and here...” His voice trailed off as he examined the helmet for a moment longer. The sides of the tent was flapping in the wind, and rain could be heard pounding down outside. “No, Miss Clarke, 1642 is impossible. This is a typical seven-shilling cheapie from late 1644. In fact -” He shoved it back into her hands. “I'm surprised that someone with your supposed level of education could make such a mistake. This is rudimentary stuff, my dear, first-year undergraduate level. Where did you get your doctorate, anyway? A modern polytechnic?”

  Biting her tongue, Mary set the helmet down. She'd expected Doctor Clarke to be difficult, but his ill-tempered aggression was starting to make her want to scream. “There's also -”

  “So you found a helmet in the mud,” he continued, interrupting her yet again. Reaching out, he gave her a pat on the head, and she was too shocked to pull away before he was finished. “How thrilling. Aren't you a clever little thing? Can I go now?”

  “We found more than one helmet.”

  “How wonderful. A passing group of infantrymen ended up getting ambushed here, and for whatever reason their equipment was left to rust. Hardly a staggering discovery of -”

  “Three hundred and twenty,” she added.

  He opened his mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment. For this first time since his arrival, he seemed a little taken aback.

  “Three hundred and twenty Cavalier helmets and assorted piece of armor,” she continued, “and almost the same again from the Roundhead side. We've also found a huge quantity of bones, many of them damaged in a manner consistent with battle wounds. Muskets, swords, the remains of horses, cavalry standards and infantry equipment, plus -”

  “Impossible,” he said firmly. “Out of the question.”

  “We've found them, Doctor Clarke,” she replied. “My team and I have dug all of those things and more from the mud over the past couple of weeks, and we're still finding new items every day, every hour even. This is quite possibly the most significant archaeological discovery in England for decades. Don't you see what must have happened here? It's already absolutely clear that this moor was the sign of a major battle in the -”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  “Doctor Clarke, the evidence -”

  “We're three miles from the village of Sharpeton,” he continued. “There are absolutely no records of a battle having taken place anywhere in this vicinity during the English Civil War.”

  “Clearly one did take place.”

  He shook his head.

  “This was a battlefield!” she added.

  “And then everyone conveniently forgot to mention it?” he asked, unable to stifle a faint smile. “Miss Baker -”

  “Doctor Baker,” she reminded him.

  “The English Civil War has been extensively studied,” he continued, with the tone of someone explaining a simple topic to a child. “We know everything that happened. We know the people who were involved, the groups, the events that took place. I myself have extensively studied troop movements, and I can assure you that there are very few gaps in our knowledge. We can pick any period during the entire conflict and say with a high degree of certainty that we know what was happening throughout the country and -”

  “Sure, but -”

  “We know all the major battles. Edgehill, Newbury, Naseby... We know the turning points, we have all the pieces of the story and -”

  “I know, but -”

  “And now here you are,” he added, steamrollering her attempt to answer, “trying to claim that there was another significant battle that took place at the height of the conflict, with hundreds of casualties on either side...” He sighed, seemingly a little breathless now and definitely red in the face. “And somehow we knew nothing of this event until today. Think carefully before you say another word, Miss Baker, because you're on the verge of losing wha
t little reputation you have left.”

  “I admit that it's extremely unlikely, but -”

  “It's more than unlikely,” he blustered, making his way over to a table in the corner and taking a look at several more battered old helmets that had been laid out. “It's impossible. There was no Battle of Sharpeton during the English Civil War! That is simply a fact.”

  Mary paused for a moment, watching as the old man picked up one of the helmets and turned it around in his hands.

  “Then explain what we've found here,” she said finally, forcing herself to stay calm, and still hopeful of changing his mind. “I'm not an idiot, Doctor Clarke. I know that the odds of uncovering a key battlefield like this, one that was somehow lost to history... I know it beggars belief. I know there's no conceivable way this could be happening. There should be records of this battle if it happened, contemporary accounts, but the fact remains that we've uncovered a battlefield right here, just outside Sharpeton, one we knew nothing about. Judging by the size of the discovery so far, and the fact that we're still making new finds every day, I think it's clear that this was one of the biggest battles of the entire English Civil War period.”

  “And then after it was over,” he muttered, “what happened? Did both sides just agree to pretend it had never happened?”

  “I...” She paused, aware that the idea was preposterous. “I can't conceive of a reason why they would do something like that, but... I know it sounds crazy, but for some reason, the battle seems to have been covered up. No-one wanted to admit that it happened. It's as if the survivors all agreed to pretend that there had never been a battle here at all. Why would they do that?”

  Still examining one of the helmets, Doctor Clarke seemed lost in thought for a moment, before finally turning back to her. He seemed on the verge of telling her once again that she was mistaken, but there was just a trace of doubt in his eyes, as if he couldn't quite summon the same blustering energy that had emboldened him such a few minutes earlier.

  “Okay,” he said finally, “show me exactly what you've got here. Don't editorialize, don't give me your opinion, just show me and let me form my own view. I still don't believe for one second that you've discovered proof of a lost battlefield from the English Civil War, but...” He paused, before looking back down at the battered helmet in his hands, and then at the others arranged on the table. “You certainly appear to have found something of note.”

  Chapter Three

  “Don't miss any bits,” Becca's father muttered, slumped in the armchair and struggling to focus his eyes as he watched her working. The TV was flashing in the corner, with the sound muted. “I don't want to -” He let out another hiccup. “I don't want to step on bits of glass in the morning. You don't want me cutting my feet, do you?”

  With all the big pieces from the broken bottle now swept up, Becca leaned down to start searching the carpet for smaller shards. Running her fingers through the fibers, she quickly found a few thin pieces, which she gathered together and placed in the dustpan. She knew, however, that she wasn't done yet. There had been one night, just a few months ago, when she'd missed a large piece of a broken wine glass, and her father had ended up cutting his toe on the edge. Not only had he raged at her for hours, but he'd also bled all over the floor and she'd been the one who'd had to clean up the mess. She didn't want to have to get the First Aid tin out again.

  “Get it all,” he continued, his voice more slurred than ever. He took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, followed by another hiccup. “Check if -”

  And another.

  “Check if some went under the chairs.”

  Reaching under the sofa, Becca felt about for stray shards. There were old tissues and pens, and staples, and plenty of dust bunnies that looked like strands of solid fog when she pulled them out. After a few more minutes, however, she felt certain that there were no more pieces of glass. Taking the sections of broken bottle from the dustpan, she tried to piece them back together, and she quickly found that apart from one or two tiny slivers, she had pretty much everything. Carefully making sure not to spill, she got to her feet and then began to carry the dustpan to the kitchen. As she passed her father's armchair, she held her breath, desperately hoping that he wouldn't -

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, reaching out and grabbing her wrist, almost making her spill the broken glass. “Come back and sit with me when you're done in there, okay?”

  “I'm tired,” she told him. “Can I go to bed?”

  He shook his head, before hiccuping again. “Come sit with me.”

  She paused, trying to think of another excuse, before finally nodding.

  “Okay,” she said. “I'll come back.”

  Please pass out, she thought to herself. Please, just fall asleep.

  Once her wrist was free, she made her way into the kitchen and tipped the broken glass into the bin, which was already overflowing with cigarette butts and pieces of burned pizza. After making a mental note to change the bin-bag in the morning, she spent a couple of minutes tidying the dirty plates that had been left by the sink, before realizing that she was just delaying the inevitable. A shiver of fear and revulsion passed through her chest as she thought of previous nights like this one. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred she could more or less control her father, but then were the nights when he just wouldn't fall asleep...

  Turning, she looked back through to the front room and listened for her father's snores, but finally she heard him shifting in the chair and she knew he was still somehow awake. Still not wanting to go back through yet, she sniffed her hands and then went to the sink, where she took a moment to wash the smell of red wine from her fingers. Then she took a couple of minute to dry her hands thoroughly, while still playing for time, still hoping that he'd nod off. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was half one now.

  Finally she stopped and stood in silence for a moment, listening to the silence of the house.

  Was he asleep?

  She held her breath.

  Please...

  Suddenly she heard another hiccup.

  “Have you seen the remote?” he called out a moment later.

  She sighed. Making her way through to the front room and stopping in the doorway, she saw that her father was searching for the remote control, although he hesitated when he saw her and fixed her with an intense, drunken gaze.

  “Can I... Can I go back to bed now?” she asked. “Please?”

  “Which bed?”

  She felt a shiver pass through her chest. “I'm tired and -”

  “Come here,” he continued, patting his knees. “Come sit with Daddy.”

  “I'm tired.”

  “No, you're not. Not yet.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Come over here, Becca.”

  Refusing would just anger him more, so she edged toward him while making sure not to get too close.

  “Daddy misses Mummy,” he told her, swaying so much in his chair that he could barely keep his head up straight. “Do you ever think about that? You're not the only one she left behind. Daddy loved Mummy very much, and when Mummy left, Daddy ended up all alone.” He hiccuped. “Mummy was a very good Mummy, but to Daddy she...” He paused, staring at his daughter and having to refocus his drunken gaze every few seconds. “Do you want Daddy to feel sad?” he asked finally, before patting his knee again. “Becca? Do you?”

  Yet another hiccup.

  She hesitated, trying to work out exactly how much her father had drunk so far. If he was just slightly tipsy, he'd only want a hug. A horrible, tight hug, but still just a hug, and he'd probably pass out soon enough. Then she'd be able to slip free and go upstairs. The problem, though, was that the broken bottle made it hard to tell whether he'd drunk more than usual, in which case the hug would be more than a hug. She watched, trying to buy herself time, as her father leaned across the armchair's side and tried to reach out to her, and finally – as his fingers brushed against her arm – she took a cautious step back.

  “Becca,” he slurred, “come on, just -”

  Before he could finish, he leaned too far and the entire chair tipped on its side. Becca immediately leaped back as her father tumbled to the floor.